


everything i feel returns to you somehow

by if_i_be_waspish



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 13:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14832926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/if_i_be_waspish/pseuds/if_i_be_waspish
Summary: Her voice is never quiet, never meek, but tonight it is: “You just can’t say it, can you, sweetie?”“River,” The Doctor pleads; in moments like this—and how many have there been? How many will there be?—he says her name like a prayer, like a recitation of a secret, of a promise, like something she has become.





	everything i feel returns to you somehow

**Author's Note:**

> in which i write things and in which smut happens (blame the sangria). 
> 
> thanks to Nat. <3

“River, I—” The Doctor trails off, the same way he always trails off.

River looks at him, sees everything he feels shining in his eyes, a reflection of her own when she looks at him, but the words still do not fall from his lips, and her hearts crack in her chest. She looks crestfallen—she knows she must, but like so many things _she can’t help it_.

She never craved love the way other humans did, never longed for reassuring words spoken lovingly into her ear, never dreamt of sweet nothings, never even thought of giving her already too-broken hearts to anyone else as though they might possibly ever want them. Until him.

But he can’t _say the words_ , and she knows that about this him, about past him, about future him, and it’s come to be okay. Because it has to be, because she doesn’t have a choice, because what else can she do? But tonight, inching so close to the anniversary of the day she lost her parents—for the last time, not the first—it feels like it’s not okay, like it never really will be no matter how much she pretends, and the thought sends a cold ache through her body.

River sucks air into her lungs, but it is not enough—none of it is enough for her tonight, and she shakes her head sadly, feeling the tightening in her chest, the roll of nausea in her stomach because it has now been too long since she’s heard it, since those three words fell into her ears. And she wishes now that she never knew what it felt like to hear them, but she _does_ and she can’t erase it from her memory; she’s not sure she really would, because too many things have been wiped from the reels of her mind, so much that she can never really determine what all she lost. All she knows is that she wakes up some nights feeling _bereft_ , like a song of silence has been playing in her ears for eternity and it’s all she can hear.

Her voice is never quiet, never meek, but tonight it is: “You just can’t say it, can you, sweetie?”

“ _River_ ,” The Doctor pleads; in moments like this—and how many have there been? How many will there be?—he says her name like a prayer, like a recitation of a secret, of a promise, like something she has _become_. She has become it, she knows, this woman built from parts of history, from parts and people of his life and memory, and she wonders if that is all she will ever be. Does he look at her and see her parents, Madame Kovarian, the Silence when he remembers them?

Who was she before she loved him? An unfinished thought, an orphan, _a weapon_. On nights like this one, it feels like she is still all of those things, like every word she ever knew for love is a lie, a misdirection, a dirty word.

When he says her name like this, like it should explain everything and she should _let it_ , it feels like he is giving alms, like she has been standing in his shadow with her hand out for the better part of a century just waiting for him to give her something that will never come, that can never come. And still she takes from his hands, from his body, from his lips; but she does not take from his voice, because it is the one thing he cannot give, it is the one thing he will not give. Not to her, not like this. It is the only thing she needs, some days.

River spends so much time pretending it doesn’t hurt—decades—that there are days she can convince herself that it doesn’t; then there are the days she lives for the future when that lie will become true, because some lies, if told often enough, she knows, _become true._ Still, she doesn’t leave—she can’t leave, she will never leave. Because the only thing she can imagine that might be more painful than being in love with the Doctor, is teaching herself to fall out of love with him; so she lets him hurt her—he is the _only one_ she ever lets hurt her now—because she loves him, and a world without him is one she doesn’t ever want to know.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” She whispers, and she reaches out to touch him, but she finds she cannot reach him—he hovers just out of her reach, and he’s not looking at her, studying the floor of the TARDIS instead.

The Doctor shakes his head once, twice, three times, “No.” His voice is quiet, “No, no, no.” Each repetition of the word is louder until his voice is so loud River closes her eyes against it. He pulls at his hair, tugging at the roots as he steps back from her, his eyes searching around the TARDIS wildly, looking for something, anything.

River knows that look, knows this man—she crosses to him in three quick steps, her hands outstretched until she reaches him. She brings her hands to his face, and he tries to pull away, but she won’t let him. She hushes and soothes him, bringing her lips to his, whispering promises against his mouth until the words she speaks morph into a calming recitation of _it’s okay, sweetie, shh, it’s okay_. As her fingers comb through his hair, he finally melts into her, giving in, his arms snaking around her waist, his head buried in her neck. He plants open-mouthed kisses there, his tongue darting out to taste her flesh, and he whispers her name, his breath like an apology he is tattooing onto her skin. One she can keep forever.

Her hands slip from his hair to trace his spine through his shirt, her palms pressing insistently into his back. The Doctor’s tongue snakes out and tastes her pulse point, then trails a lazy sweet path down, down, until it glides along her collarbone. He plants tender kisses along the swell of her breasts, pushed up enticingly in the dress she’s wearing, and her fingers tangle in his hair, her head falling back.

He rests his chin on her cleavage and looks up at her, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw. He dips his head back down and rests his forehead on her chest, inhaling her scent.

“River,” He whispers, his breath hot on her skin.

“Sweetie,” Her fingers tighten in his hair.

The Doctor stands upright, one hand snaking into her hair, the other moves to the small of her back and pulls her into him roughly—his mouth covers hers, and his tongue is searching, insistent. She moans against his mouth, and his hand slides down from her hair to cup her breast, his thumb teasing her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress.

He walks her back onto a chair, never breaking their kiss, and she lands with a little yelp before her tongue sweeps into his mouth and she laughs, low and throaty, kissing him back. She’s always liked him like this, wanting her, his hands exploring her body like its some new planet that may contain secrets of the universe, _knowing_ that he will find that it is, and it does. He kisses her neck, sucking at the skin there, and she knows that she will wear a mark there from his mouth—a woman possessed. And if she can’t have his words, at least she can have _this._ His teeth sink into her neck, and her back arches off the chair, her fingers gripping his hair, holding him to her.

The Doctor moves then, down, his mouth dampening the fabric over her breasts as he sucks one nipple into his mouth, then moves to the other. She watches him, rapt, because his eyes are on hers; he never breaks eye contact even as he slithers down her body, even as his hands trace circles on her ankle bones, even as his rough hands creep up her calves, pushing her dress with it until it is bunched around her hips. He stares at her, his eyes boring into hers as he grabs her wrists, bringing her hands up to the fabric. She holds it in place for him, her breaths coming in soft pants now as she watches him.

His long fingers dance across her inner thighs, his touch feather-light but enough to drive her wild. Finally, his eyes still fixed on hers, he swipes one finger along her length and he smirks.

“Oh, River,” He says, his finger toying with her as he watches her. “No knickers, and so wet already. You bad, bad girl.” He slips his fingertip into her, and River’s eyes flutter closed for just a moment before she wrenches them open again—she likes to watch him see her.

The Doctor buries his finger to the first knuckle, that smirk still playing on his face. Finally, he drops his gaze, focuses it between her legs, and the darkening of his eyes makes River cant her hips forward, urging him on. He is staring at her with hunger, like he is ravenous and hasn’t eaten for days. With one final glance to her face, he descends, his mouth covering her, kissing her as his finger slides deeper within her. His tongue laves at her, and her head tilts back to rest against the back of the chair.

Talking isn’t the only thing his mouth does well. Oh no, he’s always been good with his mouth, and when he slips another long finger into her, River gasps, and tucks her skirt under her body, moving her hands to grip his hair tightly as she rocks against his face. He moans in approval as her hips thrust against his mouth and when he stills his head, ceasing movement, River knows _exactly_ what he wants. Smirking, she tightens her fingers in his hair, holding him flush against her as she grinds against his face, his tongue, using his mouth for her pleasure and taking exactly what she wants, what she _needs_ , what she _deserves_.

The Doctor smirks against her, she can see the corners of his lips turned up in pleasure as she bears down on his mouth, his fingers still pressed deliciously inside of her. When she tilts her hips, drawing his fingers out and then back in, still holding his head to her, he groans in appreciation, and his eyes drift up to watch her again; when she sees his pupils blown as his eyes roam her face, watching her with _his own_ face buried between her thighs, River feels the ecstasy begin to flow through her. She works herself faster and harder against the Doctor’s face, and when he hums in approval, in encouragement, River feels herself break—her movements still as she holds his face tightly against her, riding out the bliss as her moans and curses echo in the TARDIS.

When River comes back to herself, the Doctor is slowly, sensually licking her, a satisfied smile on his face. He is watching her still, his eyes shining with desire, pleasure, and something deeper she can name but which he cannot say. She catches her breath as she disentangles her fingers from his hair, her nails lightly scratching against his scalp, a slow smile spreading across her face in response as his tongue gently moves against her, licking her reverently.

“Sweetie,” She whispers, tugging a bit on his hair.

The Doctor allows her to pull his head away from her, sitting back on his heels and licking his lips, his fingers still inside her. He moves his fingers in and out slowly, and River’s eyes flutter closed before his thumb ghosts over her clit and her eyes fly open again. She reaches down and grabs his wrist, stilling his movement before she tugs, withdrawing his fingers from within her, letting out a small moan at the loss.

“Your fingers are lovely, sweetie, but they’re not enough tonight.” She glances down at his trousers, his arousal evident, and licks her lips.

Still holding his wrist, River sinks to her knees on the floor, matching his position. She lifts his hand to his mouth, watching as his eyes flash with arousal as he opens his mouth, slides his fingers onto his tongue, then closes his lips around his fingers. River smirks, watching him as he closes his eyes, sucking greedily. Her hands drop and she works on undoing his trousers, before her hands move up to push his braces from his shoulders then move to unknot his bowtie, letting the ends dangle around his neck.

The Doctor slides his fingers from his mouth, opening his eyes, looking pleased. River, still grasping the ends of his bowtie, jerks him forward and kisses him, slipping her tongue into his mouth and tasting herself as she slides the bowtie from his collar, dropping it on the floor. Her fingers make quick work of the buttons on his shirt, and she pushes it from his shoulders hastily. His hands wrap around her body and find the zipper on the back of her dress, tugging it down as she shifts both of them into a taller kneeling position, pushing his trousers and pants down as far as they will go before she pushes him back gently until he is lying flat against the floor of the TARDIS.

River removes his trousers, tossing them to the side. She rises, and quickly divests herself of her dress. She stands above the Doctor and he watches her from his prone position, his eyes sweeping over her body, lingering on all of his favorite parts; the desire rolls from him in palpable waves as he looks, drinks in the sight of her naked before him.

River looks at him—so open to her now, so trusting of her that he lies naked and waiting on the floor of his time machine for the woman who was raised to destroy him to do with him what she will—and she feels her hearts swell; for all the words he cannot give her, he can give her this. And she can’t pretend that his trust in her is nothing, not given _who_ and _what_ she is.

Smirking, she descends and kneels over his hips. Gripping his base with one hand, she sinks herself down on him in one swift motion, burying him inside her and he cries out at the sensation of her enveloping him; she moans at the feel of him filling her so completely. She moves herself over him, rhythmic and wanting, and his hands move to cup her breasts, his fingers caressing her softly for a moment before he grabs her roughly, the way she always likes, his fingers pinching, pulling.

“I like you like this, River,” the Doctor says from underneath her, “Taking what you want,” He lifts his head, arcing his body up, and his teeth close around her nipple, biting down until she cries out. “Take what you want, River, it’s _yours_.” His words are muffled by her breast in his mouth, and the sight coupled with the sound sends a jolt of pleasure through her body.

River’s head falls back and she quickens her pace, impaling herself on him over and over and over again until she feels the tightly wound cord within her on the edge of breaking. When the doctor drops a hand from her breast to her clit, she cries out and clenches around him, his name falling from her lips as the wave of pleasure takes her; she goes willingly—she always goes willingly when it comes to him. As her orgasm crests, the Doctor’s hands grab her hips, his thumbs digging into her flesh as he thrusts upward into her pointedly, his breath ragged as he watches her face still flushed in ecstasy. He pumps into her once, twice, three times and then follows her over the edge, her name a hoarse cry from his throat, ragged and dirty.

Of all the ways he’s said her name tonight, she thinks, this way is her favorite.

River looks down at him, watching the pleasure on his face, enjoying the look of her Doctor losing control. When his hips still and a small shudder runs through his body, River leans down and kisses him gently, her tongue languidly sliding into his mouth, her bare breasts against his bare chest, skin to skin. Smiling against his mouth, she rolls over and he slips out of her. She is half-pressed against him now, her left side digging into the floor of the TARDIS as she rests her head on his chest.

The Doctor’s hand comes up to rest on her shoulder, his fingers occasionally brushing the ends of her curls sending sensation to the roots of her hair, and she closes her eyes. River sighs contentedly, burying her face in his skin, enjoying the steady beats of his hearts, the way the weight of his arm feels wrapped around her, the way his breathing still hasn’t returned to normal.

Maybe she doesn’t need words after all, if she has this: his skin under her palm, his scent on her skin, the pleasant ache he leaves between her thighs. It can be enough, if she lets it. And she will let it—because she loves him. Her madman in a box, she would follow him _anywhere_ : to the edge of a thousand universes, without even asking a single question, without even a single word. And so why should she need them now, his words, when he has given her so much already? _River Song_ , he gave her that—herself as she is now—with what could have been his very last breath, and how is that not _enough_? How has that not _always_ been enough?

The sound is so quiet and soft she thinks she has imagined it until she hears it again. She lifts her head from his chest, looking at him curiously, “Are you humming?” At his nod, she tilts her head, “It sounds familiar.” He just peers down at her, smiling, “What is it, then?”

The Doctor tightens his grip around her, gently lifting her up. She stands and eyes him as he gets dressed, slipping his trousers back on, his shirt, his braces—then he turns to her and grins, “I’ll show you.”

River slips her dress back over her head and scoops his bowtie up off of the floor. She loops it around his neck and under his collar as he stands at the console typing in coordinates. She tugs on the ends of the bowtie until he turns around to face her. She ties it for him, her nimble fingers making a quick knot. She’s done this a thousand times before; she will do it a thousand times again.

As she straightens her handiwork, she quirks her eyebrow at him, “What are you up to?” She can’t keep the skepticism out of her voice, the idle curiosity.

The Doctor leans forward and presses a quick kiss to the tip of her nose, smiling at her when she wrinkles it in response.

“I’m taking you to a concert, River Song.” He turns back to the console and continues typing, “Several, actually.”

And he does.

The Doctor takes River to concert after concert, the music of every era washing over them as they sit, stand, lay in grass on picnic blankets.

They sit in a smoky room in a lounge listening to Frank Sinatra croon; they laugh and clap along mostly to the beat at a Dolly Parton concert in the foothills of Tennessee—they leave happy and breathless, stealing kisses as fireflies dance around them; they sit in camping chairs at an outdoor fair listening to John Mellencamp, singing the choruses to the popular American songs loudly with everyone around them.

River cries at Chopin.

They dance slowly—River sensually, the Doctor badly—at an outdoor Van Morrison concert, the people surrounding them stopping to watch them sway before turning their eyes back to the stage where Van Morrison plays, sweeping his hair out of his eyes with his free hand.

They stand in awe at a Bob Dylan concert; they sit in the back of a small room while Janis Joplin plays to a tiny crowd, singing old hymns and songs that aren’t her own until the moment they fall from her lips.

The Rolling Stones serenade them at a sold-out show, packed to the brim with people sweaty, happy, transfixed.

Billy Joel, Carly Simon, The Doors, Steve Winwood, Patti Smith, they watch them all. River smiles, laughs, cries—the Doctor watches her listen, his arm around her shoulder, his hand in hers, his hands around her hips with her back pressed into his chest. Sometimes he sings the lyrics in her ear, and she turns her head up to look at him, the stage lights, candlelight, moonlight, sunlight dancing across her face before she kisses him, sweetly, soundly, sensually, and once, sadly.

“Last one.” The Doctor whispers in her ear, pulling her back against him, his hands settling on her hips. His breath tickles and she tucks her head back into him, smiling.

Joni Mitchell is standing on stage in front of them now, some impromptu concert that only the people in attendance will ever remember; they’ll sit around hearths and dinner tables after her death talking about the show in the shadow of the dilapidated Hollywood sign. They’ll remember the person standing next to them, even if years and distance have wrought too much damage between whomever they came with. They’ll talk about the magic of that night, of the intimacy, of how Joni Mitchell poured her heart out to a roomful of strangers, how she almost cried as she sang the lyrics: _I wish I had a river I could skate away on_.

When the sad and simple tune fills the small room, River sighs softly, leaning her head back against the Doctor’s chest, “Oh, I _love_ this song.” She breathes out—it’s quiet, but he hears her.

He drops his head down to speak low in her ear. “Me, too. It’s beautiful and sad and it’ll break your hearts and you _know_ it, but it’s still the only one you want to hear some days.”

River looks away from Joni on stage singing tearfully into the microphone and finds the Doctor watching _her_ , instead. River pulls back and turns to look at him curiously, taking in the serious look in his eyes, even as the song plays quietly in the background, and suddenly it hits her all at once: the words, the lyrics come flooding back to her, little snippets she didn’t even know had stuck in her memory invade her mind, playing rapid-fire, each line from a different song:

_Somewhere a river of happiness flows, we’ll sit on its banks while the warm breezes blow..._  
_We're all carried along by the river of dreams…_  
_Meet me on the river of time…_  
_Life's just around the bend, my friend, moon river and me…_  
_All roads to the river…_  
_Please believe me, the river told me, very softly—want you to hold me…_  
_I've been following the river, til it joins hands with the sea…_  
_But I'll sit down on this bank of sand and watch the river flow…_  
_In the river I know I will find the key…_  
_There's a river pouring… And it carries my heart along, carries me all my life, and I know it will bring me home…  
_Rivers and roads, rivers and roads, rivers ‘til I find you…__

__

__

____

_____ _

____

_____ _

____

_____ _

____

_____ _

____

River thinks of the things the Doctor had whispered in her ear at other shows, how he watched her instead of the artists on stage:

____

_“This is the song you want to hear when everything in your life has gone wrong, and you’re worried nothing will fix itself again.”_

____

_“This is the song you want to play right before the biggest battle of your life because it’s the only thing in the world that can give you confidence.”_

____

The Doctor sees it the moment it clicks, he must, because the second the last puzzle piece slides into place, he smiles, “River.”

____

River feels the emotion swell, feels her eyes begin to water, and she grabs him by the wrist and drags him through the door directly behind them. She leads him out into the alley behind whatever little club they’re in. Joni’s voice still cuts through the night, but it’s quiet and the air is clear and fresh and a little cold.

____

He leans casually against the wall, one foot perched up against the grey brick of the building as he watches her, a smile threatening to break across his face. River crosses her arms over her body, tears still swimming in her eyes.

____

She fixes her gaze on his bowtie, “All those songs?” She curses herself for the way the tears slip into her voice, for the way her words are thick with emotion, but she can’t help it.

____

The Doctor reaches his hand out and tucks his thumb under her chin, lifting her head gently; he doesn’t speak until her eyes lock onto his.

____

“All those songs.” He confirms, nodding once. He smooths his hand over her cheek, his thumb running lightly along her cheekbone.

____

Her mouth drops open, and her watery eyes search his, “But some are _sad_.”

____

“Sometimes sad things are between us too, River. Sometimes they’re angry between us, sometimes things _hurt_ between us.” He smiles at her; and this, like his touch, is gentle. “But that’s okay. Because we’ve got the happy things between us, too, you and me.” His thumb caresses her face and she leans into his palm, “And I want it all, River. All of it.”

____

She stares at him, speechless. She feels a tear escape and slip down her cheek, and she hates herself for being so predictably human, but the Doctor just catches it on his thumb, then tucks her hair behind her ear, his finger grazing lightly against its shell.

____

He speaks slowly, gently, tenderly: “In case you haven’t figured it out, in case a thousand bands and musicians could never get it just quite right: _I love you,_ River Song,” He takes a deep breath, still looking in her eyes, “And if I don’t say it enough—or ever—it’s because I know too much about time, too much about loss, and I don’t ever want to see the day where I don’t know you.” He leans in and rests his forehead against hers, “And somehow I think that not saying it will make it less true, but it hasn’t. It doesn’t.” He presses a gentle kiss to her lips, “And I know now that whatever happens, in any infinite future, I will never see a day where I don’t _love_ you.” He pulls back from her, smiling.

____

River holds out her hands in front of her, stunned at the words falling from his lips; she has never heard them before, and she collects them in her hands, the only alms she’s ever truly needed—and she will never be needy again, because he _loves her_ , and _it is enough_.

____

She leans forward, one hand bracing herself against the Doctor’s chest; she looks at him, her eyes shining, “Oh, sweetie.” She brings her hand to his face, “I love you too.”

____

River Song never craved love the way normal humans did, but her Doctor—he gave it to her, anyway; he taught her that she will never have to live without it again. Sometimes, words are just words—but sometimes, they’re promises, covenants, that someone will spend a thousand lifetimes and countless regenerations keeping.

____


End file.
